


there is a light that never goes out

by fortunedays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Self-Mutilation, see additional warnings inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunedays/pseuds/fortunedays
Summary: He thinks of Evan’s last request, a promise hastily made in the summer twilight of a mangled youth. He hadn’t meant it at the time, not truly. Never intended to let someone in as he had Evan, never intended to live long enough to need it.He won’t admit that he needs the protection. But looking at Remus knelt before him, hands clinging to his in silent oath, Severuswantsit.Or, how Severus handles war, pain, and something like love.
Relationships: Evan Rosier/Severus Snape, Remus Lupin/Severus Snape
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80





	there is a light that never goes out

**Author's Note:**

> **additional warnings: self-harm** via use of _sectumsempra_ , child abuse & referenced domestic abuse, various mentions of blood, _crucio_ as punishment, general dark themes.

_September, 1995_

_Malfoy Manor_

The crowd gathered tonight is subdued, waiting, fear etched into many of their faces. It’s a frequently occurring mood, Severus notes. The Dark Lord’s impatience — and, more often than not, his anger — grows by the day. To say the meetings are tense is an understatement.

They sit, assembled around Lucius’ dining table, in uncomfortable silence. Severus’ gaze flits along the table, makes note of who’s here, who has yet to show their face. Across from him, Lucius and Narcissa sit with stony, pinched expressions. Severus knows them well enough to know they’ve been arguing again, likely about the Dark Lord’s presence in their home. No one in Lucius’ position could have said no to the Dark Lord, but Severus knows there’s more than fear that drives Narcissa’s displeasure with the arrangement.

Removing his gaze from the Malfoys, Severus glances around the table, his aloof mask perfectly honed. Shrouded in shadow sit men who know well enough to hide their faces: Nott, Crabbe, Goyle. Those with children to protect; those who have more _choice_ than Lucius. Selwyn and Avery, the Carrows. Pettigrew sits, cowering, by the Dark Lord’s side. Severus thinks a fool would make a better servant, but at least the rat is dispensable. His catalogue is interrupted by the gaps in their seating arrangement. Many seats at the table remain empty, too many still in Azkaban to fill the table.

The tension in the room has grown palpable. Severus has had years’ practice at hiding his discomfort, his fear, pushing it so far down beneath a mask of Occlumency that he can trick even himself into believing that there aren’t any hidden emotions behind his calm stare. It becomes more difficult with anger, but those emotions are saved for other things: here, he enters with equal parts respect and self-preservation, and, depending on the evening’s mood, a healthy dose of fear.

He has always been skilled at this. But even Severus has his limits.

These recent months have caught him between an unstoppable Dark Lord and an immovable Dumbledore, and if committing espionage wasn’t enough, he is still saddled with his teaching duties and Order meetings. And, what with the Dark Lord’s moods that change with a flick of his wand, Severus’ emotional regulation is being put to quite the test. He can’t afford to fail, not here. Not now. But everyone has their outlet.

The opening of the door grabs the room’s attention, as their last attendee makes his appearance.

“Yaxley.” The Dark Lord’s voice is dangerously calm: a warning. “You’re late.”

“My apologies, my Lord. I—”

The excuses die on Yaxley’s tongue as the Dark Lord stands, wand raised. The _Crucio_ is expected. Severus watches idly, lets Yaxley’s screams wash over him. Bottles himself up to deal with later, when it’s safe; the promise of releasing the pain a distracting thought.

“Now,” the Dark Lord is saying, “to business. Lucius?”

Severus turns away from Yaxley, focuses on the empty words coming from Lucius’ mouth. He needs something to report to Dumbledore, after all.

xxx

_May, 1970_

_Spinner’s End_

When he was younger, Severus would hide from the blows, his arms wrapped around his shaking body as he listened to his mother cry.

He refuses to cower, now. Won’t let his father win; at least, not as easily. He’s pathetically small, even for ten, but his magic is volatile enough to make Tobias pause, sometimes. Enough so that he’ll hit Severus, but not Eileen.

Severus considers that a victory.

His father is drunk again tonight; the stench of liquor meets Severus at the front door. Feels a flash of relief that he told Lily not to walk him home. Inside, he finds his parents in their usual places: Tobias grumbling angry, indistinct swears as he paces the sitting room, as Eileen watches, trembling, from the kitchen door.

Severus’ absence has evidently been the source of this evening’s ire, for his father rounds on him as soon as he appears in the doorway. “Blasted boy,” Tobias spits. “Where’ve you been?”

“Out,” Severus says, knowing better than to mention Lily, to even hint at _magic._

“Don’t talk back!” his father roars, and the resulting slap he gets sends Severus headfirst into the doorframe.

From the floor, Severus blinks away the stars and the tears, focusing in on his father. He channels his anger, narrowing it down: _precise_. He has grown better with the control. Severus glares at his father, and before Tobias can react to the mad look in his eyes, he’s thrown clear across the room, landing in a heap along the opposite wall. Severus can feel blood trickling down his face; regardless, he stumbles to his feet. The drunk bastard is unconscious, now, and Severus grins in savage victory.

Eileen turns to him, then, fear still swimming in her eyes. He expects to be chastised for the magic — he always is, what with Eileen fearing her husband’s reaction — but her voice is only quiet when she says, “Come, Severus. You’re bleeding.”

He follows her to the washroom, hardly big enough for the both of them. His reflection stares at him from the mirror, eyes glittering stark and black against his pale face, the right side of which is dripping blood down his cheek. It’s not the first time his father’s beatings have made him bleed — surely won’t be the last, either — but Eileen has never helped him, after. Usually she was too busy being afraid, wondering when Tobias would shake from his trance and come after her next.

His head has begun to ache, now, enough to be bothersome, but not enough to hurt. The bleeding has slowed, but Severus still watches it, entranced by the color, the saturation of it, that contrasts garishly with his skin. His anger, flaring just moments ago, has calmed, leaching out of him like an open wound. He reaches up and traces the cut with a skinny finger, relishes the flash of pain that shoots across his forehead when he does so.

“Don’t poke at it, Severus.” Eileen moves his hand away and begins cleaning up the blood, hands shaky but sure. The spell broken, Severus stares forward, unfocused, wondering idly what might happen _next time._

xxx

_September, 1995_

_Hogwarts — Severus’ Quarters_

He returns to the castle late that evening, nearly midnight by the time he makes his way down to his quarters. The chill of the dungeons seeps beneath his robes; he counters it with a mindless flick of his hand toward the grate, a roaring fire springing up amongst the embers. He leaves his cloak by the door and sinks into his armchair, head heavy in his hands. It’s nights like these that make him wish he drank. He knows, even if he did, that it still wouldn’t give him an escape. There were some things even alcohol couldn’t drown out.

The meeting’s mood had not improved as the night wore on. No one seemed to have any impressive news to share; even Severus’ apparent leads on Sirius Black’s location had been met with only mild appreciation. It was clear that the Dark Lord’s focus was on freeing those still in Azkaban, a task which Severus was, most relievedly, excused from. They had been dismissed with a thinly veiled threat to provide more _helpful_ information when they met again. Severus had nearly made his exit when he was pulled aside by Narcissa, who had, evidently, not finished her disagreement with Lucius. The issue of the Dark Lord’s increasingly frequent presence was indeed Narcissa’s concern, and she had insisted Severus ensure Draco’s staying at Hogwarts for the holiday if it persisted. He had agreed, out of necessity more than anything else, but he understood her intentions. None of them, Lucius included, wanted to see Draco become a Death Eater if it could be avoided.

Severus sighs, his repressed emotions from earlier in the night flooding back in full force. It was one thing to be able to Occlude himself when necessary — an increasingly common occurrence in these last few months — but he could never keep up his defences when alone. He’d been feeling the itch since the Dark Lord’s return, but it wasn’t until the school year resumed that Severus found himself slipping back into his old ways.

He’s not as reckless as he was in his youth; knows, now, how to keep the spells controlled, how to keep the results hidden.

He makes his way to the small kitchen and rolls up his sleeve, his arm uniformly pale but for the haphazard scars that criss-cross the surface. All intentional, save a potion burn or two. Wordlessly, he traces a small line with his wand, and watches, transfixed, as blood beads in the wound. It’s not deep enough to do any damage, but it’s enough to help him breathe a little easier.

Sometimes, Severus thinks of the boy in Spinner’s End who would stand at the mirror, enthralled by the rust of his own mortality. He’d never intended it to evolve to _this,_ though at fifteen he might have said otherwise.

By the time he’s boiled some water and left the tea to steep, he has calmed from the night’s events enough to retrace the wound, stitching it back together with ease. He could use dittany but doesn’t bother; this one’s not likely to scar. Cleaning off the blood, Severus makes note of the next Order meeting, two nights from now, and pauses.

It has been some time since Severus has last seen Remus, not since the last Order meeting he’d forced himself to attend some three weeks back. Their communication, though strained in frequency since Remus’ leaving the school, had been consistent up through the Dark Lord’s return. Now, for Remus’ safety as well as his own, Severus only sees the werewolf at the meetings; the only reason, he thinks, that he still drags himself to that hellhole Black calls a house. He wonders, briefly, if Remus will notice his little _habit._ The man had always been annoyingly perceptive.

Severus brushes off his thoughts and retires to his room, tea cup in hand. The last thing he needs preoccupying his thoughts right now is Remus Lupin, of all things.

xxx

_February, 1976_

_Slytherin Dormitory_

“For Merlin’s sake, Sev, will you sit _still_.”

With a glare, Severus settles his attempts to wiggle free of Evan’s grasp. The dormitory is empty, save for the two of them, thanks to some choice words Evan had spit at the others to make them leave. They sit on Severus’ bed, his left arm currently held steadfast in Evan’s lap, as he attempts to stem the flow of blood from the gash that splits Severus’ skin.

Severus supposes he should be grateful that Evan is helping him, and that, of all people, Evan was the one to find him. He’ll have questions, yes, but he knows Severus well enough to not push too hard. But the look on Evan’s face — the furrowed brows, wide eyes, mouth set in a determined line — tells Severus that, for all of Evan’s attempts to act otherwise, he’s worried.

It isn’t the first time that something like this has happened, not the first time Severus’ spells have gotten away from him. The newness of this one, the _volatility,_ mixed with Severus’ righteous anger and reckless disregard for his own safety, well — it certainly made for interesting results.

“You’ve been working on this _Sectumsempra_ for what, a month now? Can’t you start practicing on, I dunno, _Black,_ instead of yourself?” Evan’s voice is harsh, but only just; he gets snappy when he’s concerned. Severus almost considers it endearing, if Evan were capable of such a thing.

“I can’t _control_ it yet, idiot,” Severus says, with a shake of his arm. “As much as I’d like to slice Black into a million pieces, I don’t fancy being expelled, either.” He still wakes in the night, frozen with terror, the memory of the werewolf’s eyes haunting him in the darkness. This he won’t share with Evan; the reason behind the spell’s classification unnecessary. _For enemies._

“ _Right,_ ” Evan drawls, “because Hogwarts is so wonderful.” He prods the wound again, earning a disgruntled hiss from Severus, managing to finally get a healing spell to stick. It’s sloppy, just barely knitting the skin together, but it’s enough to prevent Severus from bleeding out. Snatching up the roll of bandages that Severus had provided, Evan sets to wrapping the wound, knowing _why_ Severus is so prepared is a question he shouldn’t ask.

When Evan finishes, Severus banishes the blood from his sheets and their hands. His hand is encased in Evan’s, now, and this time, he doesn’t try to fight it.

“You know,” Evan says after some time, his eyes finally meeting Severus’, “you really ought to come up with a countercurse for that. Watching you bleed out isn’t really my thing.”

“I’m working on it,” Severus assures him. Doesn’t tell him that it’s nearly perfect, far easier to create than its counter. He’d been content to let himself bleed — until Evan walked in, anyway.

The boy in question sighs, shifts on the bed so they sit side by side. Shoulders pressed together, hands tangled; this level of touch isn’t new, by any means, but perhaps now more welcome. They haven’t named it, though Black and his ilk have plenty to say about it. It’s fine this way: they know what they are, and what they aren’t. Regardless, it’s made Evan more watchful, more worrisome, over Severus’ more self-destructive habits.

Severus can’t blame him, given the circumstances.

Evan’s voice, quiet now, breaks the silence. “How long has this been going on, Sev?” It’s the only thing he can bring himself to ask.

Sighing, Severus drops his gaze to the floor. He’s done his best to hide this side of himself from Evan, though their constant time together has made that increasingly difficult. But he knows, though Evan won’t ask, that he has more scars to answer for — ones that even Evan won’t buy as _practice._ He’s loath to talk about it, hasn’t even mentioned it to Lily. But Lily isn’t here.

Reluctantly, Severus says, “It didn’t start on purpose.”

xxx

_November, 1973_

_Potions Classroom_

Severus isn’t sure what’s more repulsive about today’s Potions lesson: the Doxycide simmering away in their cauldrons, or the obnoxious presence of Black and Potter at the next table. They’ve been on a particularly malicious streak this week, and Severus’ usual level of ire toward them has risen to a burning hatred.

Beside him, Lily adds the Streeler shells to her cauldron, prodding the flame up to match Severus’. He passes her the remaining dragon liver, and she wrinkles her nose at the sight.

“I don’t see _how_ you spend so much time making potions, Sev,” she mumbles, chopping the liver into small pieces. “Some of these are truly foul.”

“Trust me, this is nothing,” he says quietly, but it’s nearly lost beneath Black’s troublesome laugh.

“It’s in his nature, Evans,” he says, loud enough for them to hear, but quiet enough to not rouse Slughorn’s attention. “I’m sure Snivellus feels right at home among the stench.”

Severus’ anger flares, but he keeps his gaze focused on the liver beneath his blade. Black’s not bold enough to start a fight in class, and besides, he’s not worth ruining a potion over. Voice low and calculated, Severus replies, “I’m sure you know all about _foul nature,_ Black. Your parents are cousins, if I recall?”

The jab hits its mark; Black’s indignant mutterings are heated, but stifled by Slughorn’s presence as he meanders through the room. Beside him, Lily sighs, but he sees the hint of a smile beneath her exasperated expression. Evan, grinning widely at Severus from across the table, gives him a quick thumbs up before turning back to his cauldron. Severus can’t help the ghost of a smile that tugs at his lips in response.

Black scoffs, then, and Severus can almost hear the malicious grin returning. “At least I’m not snogging the greasiest git at Hogwarts. Honestly, Rosier, I’d think even you could do better than _that._ ”

Everything seems to happen at once: Evan, glowering at the sound of his name, snaps at Black to _piss off, you stupid fuck;_ Black and Potter’s laughter prompts Lily to join in telling them off; and Severus, knife still in hand, falters at Black saying Evan’s name, nicking his finger before he realizes his aim is off. Blood blooms in the wound almost immediately, diverting his attention from the calamity happening around him.

Distantly, he’s aware of his anger, bordering on the kind of blind rage only Black is capable of inciting. This isn’t the first time his perceived sexuality is being used as a weapon against him; Severus had been on the receiving end of those taunts in Cokeworth, long before Black had picked up the tradition. But this is the first time Evan’s been brought into it, the first time Black’s been this _direct,_ and, magic be damned, Severus wants to punch the smug look of victory off of Black’s face.

As Slughorn attempts pathetically to calm the situation, Severus watches the blood drip down his hand, pooling in his palm. The pain is sharp and intoxicating, easy to focus on. As he watches, as he _feels_ , the tension in his chest starts to lessen, rage fading into the background. A calmness settles over him, the pain a welcome target for his anger.

He isn’t sure how long he’s been staring when Lily’s voice, tight with concern, washes over him. “Sev, you’re bleeding. Are you alright?”

He blinks once, twice, before meeting her gaze. Closing his hand into a fist, he says, “It’s fine, Lily. Just a cut.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sev. It’s not stopping.”

He can feel the blood seeping between his fingers.

“You ought to go to Madame Pomfrey. Slughorn will understand.”

Severus scowls; the last thing he needs is Madame Pomfrey fretting about him. Even his mother would be less bothersome. Regardless, leaving would concede defeat, and he won’t give Black the satisfaction. Slipping off his tie, Severus wraps it tight around his hand, holding it closed with a fist. Doesn’t bother saying that he’s had worse. “Better?”

Lily still looks apprehensive, but she nods tersely and turns back to her cauldron. Severus follows suit.

That night, Severus sits on his bed, curtains drawn, long after the others have fallen asleep. The wand tucked behind his ear emits a gentle _Lumos,_ and in the light he examines his hand. The wound isn’t terribly deep, but it will likely scar, Severus notes. It hurts, too, but not in a way that bothers him — in fact, he almost enjoys it.

He circles the wound with the tip of a finger, his mind wandering to Spinner’s End: blood in the sink, the gash on his head, the way his anger had drained from him when he focused on the pain. He thinks of this morning and recognizes the feeling. His father and Black, they’ve given him more than their fair share of injuries.

He prods his wound and thinks _pain_ , thinks _outlet._

Thinks everything can be manipulated for advantage.

xxx

_September, 1995_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

The foreboding edifice of Grimmauld Place makes Severus’ scowl even deeper. After the week he’s had, spending the dinner hour of his Friday evening ignoring Black’s hatred over the pretense of an Order meeting is not something he’d prefer to be doing. He’s here mostly out of obligation — or, he should say, under threat from Minerva — but, if he’s being honest, he’s here for one reason only.

Minerva leads them to the front door, and sets to unlocking it with a tap of her wand. When the clicks cease, they enter, greeted with the enveloping gloom of the front hallway. Severus relocks the door as Minerva makes her way toward the voices floating out from the kitchen. He dares to hope that the meeting will go quickly, but the thought is only half formed in his head when he hears a creak on the stairs behind him.

“Ah, Severus. I’d hoped I would see you tonight.”

Severus turns, the disgruntled expression relaxing from his face. Leaning heavily against the bannister is Remus, looking rather weary, but smiling gently all the same. “Don’t tell me the full moon came early,” Severus says by way of a greeting, inclining his head at Remus. “You’ll disrupt my schedule.”

Remus chuckles quietly, descending the last few stairs to join Severus in the hall. “Never thought you one to worry, Severus.”

“Merely an observation. You hardly look like you’ve eaten since I’ve last seen you, let alone slept.” The words, though blunt, seem to amuse Remus. Severus may not admit that he cares, but he doesn’t have to.

“Troubled times, my friend. Troubled times.” Severus quirks an eyebrow in agreement, and together they make their way to the kitchen.

The room is nearly full by the time they arrive; the meetings have grown in attendance these last few weeks. Severus himself has missed more than he’s attended, such being the life of one committing espionage on a teacher’s schedule. Regardless, he ensures that at minimum he’s present on the week preceding the full moon. The familiar flask of Wolfsbane, shrunk to the size of a vial, sits in his pocket. He’ll give it to Remus after the meeting, when they’re alone; the brief time they spend together worth struggling through even the worst of meetings.

Severus’ hopes of a brief meeting are given up as soon as it starts. The dirty look Black had thrown his way as he entered with Remus was enough to set the evening’s tone. The reports are the usual tosh. The status at the Ministry is still shaky, according to Shacklebolt; Potter’s story is torn apart more by the Prophet as the days pass. Those patrolling the Department of Mysteries have next to nothing to report; the only comment being Tonks’ seeing Lucius Malfoy on more than one occasion.

“He was at the Ministry on the day of Harry’s hearing,” Arthur chimes in, drawing more than a few gazes from the group. “He was speaking to Fudge.”

Conflicted muttering breaks out among them; Severus catches a snide comment from Black about how _Malfoy’s likely bribing the Minister, the prick_. He doesn’t bother to say that Lucius has plenty of control over that spineless prat without incentives. The conversation is eventually corralled by Remus, who clears his throat and waits for the chatter to settle. Severus stifles a smirk at him from across the table. Seems like the man had retained something from teaching after all.

“If we’re quite finished with that topic,” he says quietly, with a placating smile at Black and Tonks, who cease their arguing. “I have heard some whispers among the werewolves that may be of interest. It seems Fenrir Greyback is looking to get himself and his pack into Voldemort’s good graces.”

Ignoring the ripple of winces, Severus raises a curious eyebrow at Remus. “Has he had any success?”

“To my knowledge, no. He’s not very pleased. I believe he feels he’s owed something.” Severus’ lip curls at the thought; werewolf or not, Greyback is a monster, and is owed nothing. Remus meets his gaze, and it’s clear their thoughts are in the same place. “Have you heard anything about it, Severus?”

He can feel the eyes of the Order on him, can feel the judgment that accompanies any time he speaks of what goes on in the Death Eater meetings, but when he speaks it’s as if Remus is the only one in the room. “The Dark Lord has not mentioned Greyback. He appears less focused on acquiring new recruits at the moment, in exchange for more...pressing matters.”

“Care to share what those would be, Snape, or should we just guess?” Black interrupts.

“If you exercised any amount of self-control, you would find information much more forthcoming,” Severus drawls, breaking eye contact with Remus to throw a thinly veiled sneer at Black. “The Dark Lord’s primary concern is releasing those still in Azkaban. How he attempts to do this is still unknown.”

Chatter breaks out among the Order again, but Black’s derisive scoff is easily discernible. “Well aren’t you so bloody helpful. How are we supposed to do anything if we don’t know _how_ he’s doing it?”

“Sirius, enough,” Remus says, and Severus bites back his comment that at least the Dark Lord _has_ a plan to allow Remus to continue. “The last thing Voldemort needs right now is more of his Death Eaters getting caught. Severus has made us aware that there will be an attempt to breach Azkaban, which is more information than we started with.” Black, looking rather indignant that Remus had sided against him, crosses his arms and sinks into a petulant silence. Severus nods at Remus in thanks, unable to stop the upward twitch of his lips when Remus smiles at him in response.

The meeting seems to die down after Severus’ announcement, and after a few more minutes of pointless discussion, Minerva officially ends his misery. Moody, as usual, leaves immediately; Tonks and the remaining Aurors follow shortly after. Severus rises and follows Remus out into the hall. Wordlessly, the two of them ascend the staircase toward Remus’ quarters, the action so routine that Severus hardly needs to think about it.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Remus buries his face in his hands and lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry about Sirius. It’s doing him no good being locked up here all the time, but he’s been exceptionally miserable lately.”

“And here I thought he’d always been a whiny prat,” Severus says, not bothering to hide his smirk when Remus gives him a sidelong glance.

“Maybe it’s just your charm, Severus,” Remus says, not bothering to concede the point, but not arguing, either.

Severus hums. “If that were the case, it seems you’re the only one impervious to my charms, Remus.” His comment pulls a quiet chuckle out of Remus, and a slight blush, if he’s not mistaken, as well. Brushing those thoughts aside, Severus removes the potion from his robes and enlarges it to its normal size. He hands it off to Remus who receives it with a grateful smile, before sitting heavily on his bed.

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for doing this,” he says, “especially now that I’m…”

“Caged?” Severus supplies, and Remus nods. “It’s never a burden, Remus. You know that.”

“I do. But I appreciate it _—_ and you _—_ nevertheless.”

Finding himself unable to look Remus in the eye, Severus gazes around the room, unsure of what to do with himself. It’s not the first time Remus has expressed his gratitude for Severus’ potions, but Severus knows it goes deeper than that. The Dark Lord’s return had ceased their communication, and Severus knows that Remus has struggled with the loss, even if he won’t admit it.

Severus won’t admit it himself, either.

His musings are interrupted by Remus’ voice, teasing, “For Merlin’s sake, Severus, come sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He relents after a moment’s deliberation, lowering himself beside Remus. They sit silent for a while, enjoying the rare moment of peace that is so often hard to come by. Severus finds himself relaxing bit by bit, wonders if Remus feels the same.

It’s Remus who first breaks the silence. “The full moon is next Sunday. I likely won’t make the next meeting.”

“I’ll be sure to take notes,” Severus deadpans, and Remus laughs softly, both of them knowing that Severus will, most likely, not make an appearance either. “Will you be alright after the transformation? You look exceptionally ill now.”

“You say the sweetest things, truly. I’m sure I’ll be alright. I’ve been doing more tasks for the Order so that I can avoid this wretched place, and food and sleep aren’t always easy to come by these days.”

“If Black isn’t going to be the death of you, surely that will be. I have no qualms against drugging you in order to make you sleep.”

Remus laughs, then, loud and genuine. The sound pulls a smile from Severus too. “How quaint. Will you cook me dinner first?”

“Even I have my limits, Remus.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Severus feels Remus lean slightly against him. Whether it’s out of exhaustion or intention _—_ or both _—_ Severus isn’t sure, but he doesn’t mind the proximity. He hasn’t minded, not with Remus, for quite some time.

“You spend so much time looking after others, Severus,” Remus says then, smiling with melancholic admiration. “Who looks out for you?”

Severus isn’t sure how to respond; he’s been on his own ever since Evan, since that night they said goodbye. No one looks out for him these days. But the warmth of Remus’ body beside his own whispers that, despite his apprehension, it may not be entirely true _—_ not anymore.

They both risk their lives for these moments.

Instead, Severus whispers, “Perhaps only the ghosts I left behind.”

xxx

_March, 1977_

_Slytherin Dormitory_

There had been a note on his bedside table when he’d returned from class that morning, written in Mulciber’s untidy scrawl: _Owl came from Malfoy at breakfast. He wants an answer by this weekend. Meeting in Hogsmeade on Saturday, 3 o’clock._ Though straightforward, the message is clear: _you’re expected._

Severus knows — has known, for some time now — that he cannot walk away from this. He’s been attending Lucius’ meetings with the others, though admittedly with more pressure; such was the danger of being a Malfoy’s pet project for six years. But it isn’t Lucius that intrigues him about this. The things he’s been telling them, the plans, the powers, of this Dark Lord — they sound promising. Alluring, almost. A few times, Lucius had brought Bellatrix, who was just on the line of raving mad, but was dedicated to the cause. She’d shown them her mark with glee, stark black against her pale skin.

When this first started, Lucius had assured Severus that the Dark Lord would wait until they were of age to initiate them. But Severus has been seventeen for over two months now, and the others aren’t far behind. He knows, if Mulciber’s note is anything to go by, that he has made his decision. Surely, so have Nott and Avery. Which only leaves Severus — and, of course, Evan.

Severus has already made up his mind; he couldn’t turn back from this life now even if he wanted. But there’s still one thing that’s kept him from giving Lucius an answer.

The door swings open to reveal Evan, looking exhausted and vaguely annoyed. He relaxes upon seeing Severus, tossing his bag in the general direction of his own bed before sitting down beside him. Passing the note over to Evan, Severus can’t help but reflect on how many difficult conversations they’ve had whilst sitting on his bed like this, and grimaces in preparation for another.

Evan sighs heavily, tossing the note back on the bed. “Guess there’s no more running. We’re either in, or we’re not.”

Severus only nods.

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?” Severus turns to meet Evan’s gaze, his blue eyes wide and slightly desperate. “You’re going to join.”

“I haven’t given Lucius my answer yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Why?”

Severus exhales slowly, heavy with the knowledge that there’s no easy way for this to go. His discomfort must be obvious, for Evan takes his hand in his, and the gesture relaxes him enough to allow him to continue. “If we do this, things are going to change. The danger we’re walking into is very real, whether we want it or not. I don’t know what this Dark Lord will expect from us, but with everything Lucius has said...even his marriage to Narcissa is a danger.”

“Sev, what are you saying?”

“If we do this — if we join the Death Eaters — then we cannot continue to see each other. I fear there will be many things asked of us that we will be unable to do if we are leaving behind someone we care about. I do not wish to be the death of you, Evan.”

He cuts himself off, then, and they sit in the heavy silence. There are more things he can’t bring himself to say: he knows that he would be reckless, too, if Evan’s life was on the line. They can’t be predictable, now. Can’t carry weaknesses into a war. It’s hard to say, likely harder to hear, but Severus knows Evan will understand.

After a few silent moments, Evan finally speaks. “I don’t like the idea of no one looking out for you, Severus. But you are right, annoyingly enough.” The comment pulls a small smirk from Severus. “How much time do we have?”

“Lucius said the Dark Lord would wait until we became of age. Probably early July, then, once your birthday passes. He doesn’t strike me as the patient type.”

“No, definitely not,” Evan agrees. He leans into Severus, their hands joined in Severus’ lap, Evan’s free hand resting on Severus’ forearm. “Guess we’ll have to make the most of this, then.”

Severus hums in response.

He’s never been particularly affectionate, but as the days pass, he finds himself reciprocating Evan’s touches more than usual. He brushes off the growing comments with his usual indifference. By now, tuning out Black and his band of Gryffindors has become second nature. On Saturday, they give Lucius their answer, and he gives them an approving smile and a promise to be in touch once summer arrives.

That night is the first night Evan sleeps with him — curled up against Severus’ back, Evan holds him close, both of them heavy with the knowledge of time running out.

xxx

_December, 1993_

_Hogwarts — Staff Room_

The fire burns bright in the staff room, a welcome warmth after a day spent in the dungeons’ chill. Severus thinks he ought to have grown used to it by now, having spent the majority of his years there, but he’s also not entirely convinced that Dumbledore bothers to heat that part of the castle come wintertime.

Regardless of the reasons for his chilly domain, Severus has grown to tolerate being present in the staff room, particularly when his companions are as equally suited to silence as he is. The start of the winter holidays had left the castle mostly empty; only a handful of the students and professors remain. Thus, the late afternoon finds him grading papers by the fire, accompanied only by the quiet and one Remus Lupin.

Had anyone told Severus even mere months ago that he would be spending his holidays in the company of one of his childhood nemeses, he would have been quite convinced that they were ill. But things had changed since the school year began — slowly, at first, but significantly.

It had been only a week before the term started that Dumbledore informed Severus of their latest hire, and the news had made Severus so indignant that he’d been at a loss for words. Remus Lupin, Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. _Really?_ The thought had him bitter for weeks. Severus’ anger was compounded with the memory of his near-death experience at sixteen — though with age he had come to accept that it wasn’t Remus’ _fault_ , not really, but that didn’t allay the fears that the man carried the same danger as he had back then.

Dumbledore had had an answer to that, as he always did, and of course it required Severus’ participation. Brewing the Wolfsbane potion was a dangerous venture — any mistake could kill the recipient — but Severus had no misgivings that he was the most adept to brew it. And, under pressure from Dumbledore, he had, and Remus spent September’s full moon asleep under his desk.

Despite their little arrangement, Severus’ opinion of Remus had changed very little. He was still as obnoxiously Gryffindor as he’d been as a youth, though he’d seemed to have matured in the interim. The incident with Longbottom’s bloody Boggart had been almost enough to push Severus over the edge, even with Remus’ stream of apologies, many of which were accompanied by embarrassed laughter. He was just as good at getting under Severus’ skin as he’d always been, but as the weeks passed, Severus felt his animosity begin to lessen.

There was only so much avoidance that Severus could get away with, seeing as they were both professors, and he eventually resigned himself to Remus’ presence. It was this change, when Severus stopped leaving any room that Remus walked into, that started to change everything else. Remus was surprisingly easy to talk to, which was proved time and time again by their adjacent seats in the Great Hall. Severus’ silence at meals slowly began to wear down, and he began to find his conversations with Remus rather enlightening. 

Come October, Severus found himself admitting Remus into his office on the nights preceding the full moon, rather than leaving the Wolfsbane in Remus’ office and disappearing. Some nights they sat in quiet companionship, and some nights they talked — safe subjects, academic ones, mostly, but the conversation came easier than it ever had. November brought more of the same.

There was one such night when Remus, either feeling particularly brave or perhaps just in the mood of their growing acquaintanceship, broke the evening’s silence. “Severus, I’d like to apologize.”

Severus had raised an eyebrow at him, half his attention still on the essays in front of him. “What for?”

“For what happened that night during sixth year. In the Shrieking Shack.” His attention fully on Remus now, Severus warily met his gaze, ready to be on the defence. But what he saw in Remus’ eyes was not nobility or bravery or righteousness — it was shame. Guilt. Regret. “You have no obligation to believe me when I say that I had no idea what Sirius was planning, but I feel I should say it anyway. I had spent my entire childhood fearing that I would hurt someone — that I would lose control and next morning hear that someone had died. When I realized what Sirius had done, I was overcome with guilt. I asked if I had hurt you, and they laughed. Said that it was only because of James that you lived. 

“I think I yelled at them. I honestly don’t remember. We didn’t speak for weeks, but at the next full moon, they were there to help me. But the knowledge of what I could have done ate away at me, and every time I saw you and saw that hatred in your eyes, I regretted everything. But I wasn’t brave enough to cut ties with James and Sirius, though I should have many times.” Remus paused, then, searching Severus’ impassive face for signs of a response. “I know this is likely too little, too late, Severus. I haven’t known how to say any of this, and as time went on, it only got harder. But please know how sorry I am, Severus, for everything. For everything.”

In the silence that followed, Severus found himself cycling through so many emotions that he couldn’t pick one to focus on. He wanted to be angry. He wanted the simplicity of being right, of telling Remus to shove off and never speaking of this again. But he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even frustrated. The sorrow in Remus’ eyes was real, his tone genuine. It shocked Severus. He had never considered Remus a brave man, but in their time together he had begun to see new sides to him that they were never able to share as teenagers. Perhaps this was one of them.

“I have resented you for that night for many years,” Severus finally said, “but with time I grew to stop blaming you. I have understood you more in these last few weeks than I ever did when we were students.” He paused briefly to look Remus in the eye. “I accept your apology, Remus. You needn’t blame yourself any longer.”

Remus had relaxed, then, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “Thank you, Severus.”

From that point on, Severus had set aside his old hatred toward Remus, an effort that has led them to this: sharing the staff room in amicable silence, an air of something not quite friendship, but almost, settling between them.

Though unexpected, Severus has found himself grateful for the companionship.

A quiet chuckle from Remus pulls Severus back to the present. “Severus, you’ve been staring at that essay for at least ten minutes now. Either you’ve caught a particularly incomprehensible essay, or your head is somewhere else.”

Severus glares at him, but there’s no malice behind it. “For the record, nearly all of these essays are incomprehensible. But I’ve merely been...reflecting on things.”

“Oh?”

Severus hums noncommittally; his thoughts on this almost friendship with Remus are not something he’s quite ready to share. Instead, he says, “The Wolfsbane is prepared. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Remus says, flashing a grateful smile. “I know you weren’t given much of a choice in the matter, but I truly appreciate what you’re doing for me.”

“It is not a burden.” The words surprise Severus even as he says them, but he knows they’re true. “While I may not have had a choice in the beginning, I no longer help you out of obligation.” He thinks of the nights he’s spent toiling away at Remus’ potion, adjusting the ingredients to specifications he only has for the man in front of him.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Severus.” Remus grins at him and Severus rolls his eyes in response, but his lips twitch into a smile anyway.

xxx

_July, 1977_

_Spinner’s End_

The house is empty tonight, but for the two of them; it’s been this way more nights than not since the term ended. Severus hardly sees his father anymore; Tobias’ latest job has him working overnights, and Severus avoids being in the house during the day as much as he can. Eileen, too, is never home in the daytime; she comes home late and leaves early. They’ve crossed paths in the kitchen a few times, long enough for him to introduce Evan and notice the fading bruises she tries to hide. 

Severus has always hated coming back to Spinner’s End. He has no good memories here; even the ones with Lily are tainted, now. His own fault, really, as if that makes it any easier. But Evan had insisted on going with him, for the last bit of time they had before everything changed.

They had received news from Lucius just over a week ago, summoning them to Malfoy Manor ten days hence. Evan’s birthday had passed and there was little delay in moving things forward. It’s the shortest time Severus has spent in Spinner’s End, but as he paces about his room in the fading light, he’s grateful to be going. To not have to return to this wretched place, to his father’s fists and his mother’s empty eyes, is a relief. He’d given up that battle long ago. He has more important things to focus on.

He walks the length of his room a dozen more times before drawing to a stop beside Evan, who stands at the window, the sunset casting a golden glow on his somber face. Severus’ presence seems to bring Evan out of his thoughts, and though the heaviness is still present behind his eyes, he smiles as Severus turns and leans his back against the window. Evan watches the sun sink lower across the rooftops of Spinner’s End, as Severus observes the lengthening of their shadows on the opposite wall.

“Have you told your mum what you’re doing?” Evan asks quietly.

Severus huffs, indignant. “No. She wouldn’t understand.”

A beat of silence, then: “Mine thinks I’ll die before she sees me again.”

“We shall achieve much more than death.”

They fall quiet again, the truth of Severus’ words sinking in. They _will_ do great things. Whether they’ll come home — or have somewhere to go home to — is still uncertain. Severus hasn’t had the need to plan that far ahead.

“Can you do something for me, Sev?”

“Hm?”

Pulling his gaze from the window, Evan finally looks at Severus, surprised to find the other boy’s eyes already on him. He reaches out and traces his fingers along Severus’ hand, wrist, forearm. “Find someone who will look after you when I’m gone.”

Severus wants to say a dozen sarcastic things, wants to tell Evan to stop being so bloody dramatic, for Merlin’s sake. But he’s stopped by the look in Evan’s eyes, the pressure on his arm, the subtle reminder that he is more of a danger to himself than a protector. Quietly, he says, “I will try.”

Evan’s lips quirk into a melancholic half-smile. It’s not quite a promise, Severus knows, but it’s enough. Enough for Evan to let him go.

The room is doused in twilight when Evan finally stirs; shifting from the window to face Severus fully, he gently turns Severus’ head so their gazes meet, before leaning in and kissing him soundly. His back pressed against the window, Severus responds in kind, one hand snaking up to curl in Evan’s hair, the other reaching out to pull him closer. Evan’s mouth is firm, yet soft, against his own, his free hand clenched around Severus’ shirt like a prayer. They pull away for air only briefly before Severus kisses Evan again, softness traded in for tongue and teeth.

When Evan’s hands drift to the buttons of Severus’ shirt, Severus pushes away from the window, walking them both back until Evan’s legs hit the side of the bed. The collision causes Evan to sit down, held vertical only by the grip Severus still has on him. Both breathing heavy, Severus watches the boy before him, Evan’s face flushed and hair askew. He pushes Evan back toward the center of the bed before joining him, the heat of their touches the only thing grounding him in the semi-darkness. 

By the time most of their clothes have been pulled off and scattered, Severus casts a quick _Muffliato_ around his room. “ _Just in case_ ,” he whispers, and Evan chuckles against his lips.

They pull each other close again, cherishing this last bit of time before even the memory of it all must be packed away. Their touches are heavy with things unspoken, goodbyes and other such emotions that they won’t speak even in the morning. The dawn will bring new lives for them both; lives that they crave, despite the sacrifices.

Tomorrow they will be Death Eaters, but tonight they are just boys. As Evan settles above him, his mouth warm on his neck, Severus knows he can live with that.

xxx

_October, 1995_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

He appears in the street with a loud _crack_ , the impact so jarring that it almost brings him to his knees. The pain coursing through his body is nearly overwhelming; his hands shake as he pulls out his wand to unlock the door of Grimmauld Place. He used to have a tolerance for the effects of _Crucio,_ back in the days of his Death Eater youth.

 _Out of practice,_ he thinks wryly, his face twisted in a grimace as he shuts the door behind him.

Overlapping voices drift down the hallway to where he stands, half-hunched, gripping the stairway bannister for support. He’s late for the meeting, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’d surprised himself when he’d Apparated here instead of Hogsmeade; after the night he’d already had, no one would blame him for skiving off. But here he is, forcing himself to stand upright in the gloom of Black’s front hall, wondering how the bloody hell he’s going to survive _this_ meeting.

The time it takes him to reach the kitchen is excruciating; the path that takes seconds feels hours long. He braces his hand against the doorway, his presence, as yet, unnoticed, and seeks out Remus.

The man in question is at his usual seat beside Black, looking incredibly fed up with the conversation. His gaze, drifting away from Molly as she carries on about Harry, scans over Severus, doing a double take when he actually realizes he’s standing there. Remus’ face relaxes into a smile before he frowns, concern bleeding into his expression. As much as he tries to mask it, Severus knows his pain is evident, especially to one as tuned to his behaviors as Remus.

Remus stands and rounds the table before anyone even notices he’s moved. He reaches Severus at the same time their eyes do, just in time to catch him as he slumps forward. Severus is vaguely aware of the concerned gasps from Molly and Minerva, the overlapping chatter of the Order, but it’s all pushed aside as Remus throws an arm around him and leads them back into the hall.

Severus hardly registers the ascent to Remus’ quarters. The pain has dulled somewhat, but with every sharp movement a jolt of pain runs through him like lightning. By the time Remus sits him down on the edge of the bed, Severus is close to collapsing, the line between pain and exhaustion indistinguishable.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Severus,” Remus is saying, “what happened? Are you alright?”

Severus blinks away the latest flash of pain and focuses on the man in front of him. Remus is kneeling on the floor, his hands resting just above Severus’ elbows, ensuring he stays upright. The concern on his face is almost overwhelming, but despite Severus’ panic, he can’t look away once he meets Remus’ wide eyes.

“The Dark Lord is...not pleased with me.” 

“What happened?” Remus repeats, and Severus averts his gaze. He isn’t used to that level of concern being directed toward him, his hands shaking from something other than adrenaline.

“Greyback was mentioned during the meeting. The Dark Lord appears to have changed his mind about the werewolves, reminiscing on their usefulness in the First War. I attempted to warn him of Greyback’s utter disregard for authority and the disrespect he showed at the previous meeting, which was not taken well.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, almost surprised. “You openly disagreed with him? Why?”

“I did. I know from the First War how dangerous Greyback can be when openly encouraged. I had hoped, also, that if the Dark Lord was discouraged from aiding Greyback, the Order would have more time to intervene. Other members of his pack may stand a chance at getting out.”

“That is very noble of you, Severus.” Remus’ voice is soft, now, his expression the same.

A twitch of Severus’ lips is his only response; he can’t bring himself to say that it was only the influence of Remus that had caused him to speak up. “The meeting was otherwise unproductive. As we were dismissed, he asked to speak to me alone. He wanted to know about the Headmaster’s movements. All I could tell him was that Dumbledore spends most of his time away from the castle, and will not share his location or reason for leaving with anyone. I suppose, having already proven a disappointment this evening, the Dark Lord deemed my lackluster information worthy of a _Crucio_ before he dismissed me.”

“I’m glad you came here,” Remus says after a moment of silence, in which Severus’ words hang heavy in the air. “I wouldn’t want you to deal with this alone.”

“It would not be the first time, Remus,” Severus reminds him, his voice resigned.

Shifting his hands to grasp Severus’, Remus says, “You do not have to fight this alone, Severus.”

Severus meets Remus’ gaze again. There is concern in Remus’ eyes, but gentleness, too, a combination that Severus has not seen since the last time a messy-haired boy sat beside him on a bed, their hands clasped.

The circumstances are different, now, but the feeling is the same, Severus thinks. Remus’ hands in his are a tether — to what, he isn’t exactly sure — but it keeps him grounded, his shaking quelled by Remus’ steady warmth. He thinks of Evan’s last request, a promise hastily made in the summer twilight of a mangled youth. He hadn’t meant it at the time, not truly. Never intended to let someone in as he had Evan, never intended to live long enough to need it.

He won’t admit that he needs the protection. But looking at Remus knelt before him, hands clinging to his in silent oath, Severus _wants_ it.

“There is something I must tell you,” he whispers, and Remus nods. Releasing his right hand, Severus immediately misses the contact, but continues. Slowly, he unbuttons the left sleeve of his robe, loosening it at the wrist. In one fluid movement, he pulls up his sleeve, and waits for the fallout.

He has concealed his Mark from the moment he received it. Has worn full length robes since that fateful night fourteen years ago. But it’s never been about the Mark.

He watches as Remus takes in the haphazard scars that crisscross through his arm. The Mark nearly covers the entirety of the one from his fifth year, but the others came later, to no avail. The black ink, though dark as ever, remains mangled in the scar tissue.

“Forgive me,” he whispers, not even knowing what he’s asking for. The Mark, the scars, everything he’s done — he doesn’t deserve the forgiveness.

“Severus, look at me.” There is no accusation in Remus’ voice. Severus lifts his gaze, relaxes at the gentleness that meets him. “Whatever it is that’s haunting you, I forgive you. But you needn’t blame yourself for this.”

Finding himself at a loss for words, Severus closes his eyes. Revulsion, judgment, he could deal with those. Acceptance is a stranger.

Blinking himself back to the present, Severus asks, “Do you remember Evan Rosier?”

“Yes,” Remus says, frowning slightly at the question. “You were always together when we were at school. Rumor had it you and he were…”

“We were,” Severus supplies, feeling rather strange admitting to something he never had admitted to Evan himself. “Before we took the Mark, he asked me to find someone to look out for me after he died.”

“Why would he ask that?”

Severus almost manages a sad smile. “Because of this.”

xxx

_November, 1981_

_Somewhere in Cokeworth_

He doesn’t remember how he got here, though he doesn’t think it’d matter if he did.

The news is still fresh, gaping wider than an open wound, but the pain is the same. He had hardly wrapped his mind around Lily’s death; the nights following Halloween are still blurry to his grief-addled brain. He had tried to protect her; he’d sworn a _vow_ to keep her safe. But the Dark Lord is gone, and with him Lily, and now…

He had gotten the news from Narcissa that morning, the letter penned in her cursive, shaky with grief. _I didn’t want you to read it in the Prophet,_ she’d said, _and Circe knows the Aurors won’t give him any justice. He was family to me, but he was something to you, too. Please be safe, Severus. Evan would want you safe._

Evan, gone. He trudges through Cokeworth’s familiar darkness, Narcissa’s words running in a loop through his head. _Evan would want you safe._ He remembers words whispered in his bedroom a lifetime ago, a child’s fear that he’d die before his mother saw him again. A promise to be looked after when he was gone. Evan, _gone_.

The gloom of his childhood bedroom is as welcoming as Spinner’s End could ever be. The house is abandoned, now, his father rotting in his grave, his mother gone; alive or dead, she hadn’t bothered to let him know. He isn’t sure what brought him here, but as he takes in the room, dusty and stagnant, illuminated half-heartedly by the sepia-toned streetlights, he cannot find the energy to leave. He feels rooted to the floor, his grief seeping back into the home from which it came. In the silence, his mind begins to race.

Less than a week ago, he had stumbled through that crumbling house in Godric’s Hollow and found the Potters. He had seen Lily’s body, collapsed on the floor beside the crib, and he’d felt the air crushed from his lungs. In death, her face was as peaceful as it had been the day they met, eight years old and ignorant to the ways of war. He had left her there, had escaped before Black arrived, filled with grief and guilt and the feeling that there really wasn’t a difference in the end.

He pulls up his sleeve, and in the dim light he watches the Mark, grown dull in the days since the Dark Lord’s disappearance. He had given up so much for this life he thought he wanted—the glory, the admiration, the power — and he had gotten them, a thousand times over. But the things he has done, the people he has killed, the people who have died because of him…

He thinks of Lucius and Narcissa, and their fear of their own son meeting a terrible fate. Thinks of Lily, of Evan, of things lost too soon and how the reasons all lead back to him.

The spell is on his tongue before he can think it through, the intent clear. The white light slashes like a blade through the heavy air, and he watches as the haphazard lines bloom red with blood around the Mark. _For enemies_ , he thinks.

Later, when he Apparates to the Manor, he’ll explain with glassy eyes to Narcissa that he was trying to get it _off,_ for Merlin’s sake, to be rid of the blasted thing that caused all this. She won’t ask more questions, but will sit him down and hum _Vulnera Sanentur_ until the bleeding stops.

But for now, in the remnants of who he had once been, Severus watches the Mark disappear under a veil of blood, and wonders if he’ll ever stop breaking promises.

xxx

_June, 1994_

_Hogwarts — Remus’ Office_

The clamour of the Great Hall washes over Severus in a mindless wave as he passes the entrance, eyes scanning the High Table in a last-ditch effort to prove his fears wrong. The gap in the seating, where he and Remus should be, is as glaring as the Gryffindor banners that hang from the ceiling. Sighing quietly, Severus turns away from the Hall and makes his way up the staircase, daring to hope that he won’t be too late.

The door to the Defence classroom is open, the room empty, but Severus hears the distinctive sounds of shuffling emanating from Remus’ office. As he approaches, the sight that greets him confirms the whispers that he’d heard that morning: scattered around the room are Remus’ belongings, evidently in a state of being packed away. The shelves, just days before full of memorabilia, are bare. Remus himself is in the middle of the mess, his back to Severus, exhaustion etched into his posture.

The confrontation with Black and the revelation of Pettigrew had been enough to make Severus’ head spin, but he cannot deny the familiar fear that had struck him when he realized Remus was without his potion. Seeing Remus transform, Severus had felt sixteen again, but he hadn’t even been able to make himself pull his wand on his friend.

 _Friend._ The word still feels strange to his thoughts, but there’s nothing more accurate to describe what they’ve become. Nothing else that explains why Severus has found himself in Remus’ doorway, wishing for anything to make him stay.

Remus turns around before Severus can find the right words, his initial shock at the man’s presence fading quickly to a tired smile. “Good morning, Severus. How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to realize that the whispers I heard in the halls this morning are, unfortunately, correct.”

With a sigh, Remus drops his gaze, shifting to lean on his desk for support. “Yes, I have decided it is best if I leave Hogwarts. Dumbledore tried to convince me to stay, but...I put too many people’s lives at risk that night, Severus. I could’ve killed the children, or you, or Merlin forbid had I been near the castle…”

“Remus,” Severus says, his voice barely a whisper, but at the responding gaze he cannot find the words. “You don’t deserve exile.”

“Perhaps, but I cannot remain here. Parents don’t want a monster teaching their children, and I can’t really say I blame them.”

“You’re not a monster,” Severus states, his tone unflinching, and Remus’ face breaks into a sad smile.

“We’ve come so far, haven’t we, Severus?” Severus can’t bring himself to answer, but he doesn’t need to. “Thank you for everything, my friend. You have kept my confidence at a time when even the most loyal Hufflepuff surely would have turned me in. I cannot tell you what your friendship means to me.”

Almost overwhelmed with the sentimentality of it all, Severus swallows the sarcastic response on his tongue and tries, for the first time in many years, to be a friend. The concept is foreign, but his words are true. “I could never betray your trust like that, Remus.”

The room falls silent but the look on Remus’ face conveys his gratitude, and for a few calm moments they stand together, thinking of both the future and the past, content in the companionable silence that brought them together. Going forward, Severus knows, is full of uncertainties for them both, but perhaps this need not be one of them.

It is Remus who speaks first. “I’m not sure where I’ll go, but when I get settled I’ll send you an owl. Don’t want you up all night worrying about me.”

Severus rolls his eyes, but Remus’ resulting laughter is infectious, and he can’t help but crack a smile in return. “I am sure my sleep will go quite undisturbed, Remus, but I would appreciate it all the same.”

A few weeks later, when a particularly bedraggled-looking owl appears on his windowsill, Severus can’t help but feel relieved at the familiar writing on the letter it bears. He reads it quickly, taking in Remus’ tale of finding a secluded place whilst avoiding nosy landladies, his accidental acquisition of a stray cat, and other small nonsense he’d gotten himself into. The ending, though, brought a strange, but not unwelcome, feeling to Severus — _I hope to hear back from you; I don’t imagine I’ll find many decent friends out here. None like you, anyway. Take care, Severus. Yours, Remus._

He has never summoned a quill and parchment faster.

xxx

_October, 1995_

_12 Grimmauld Place_

Remus has been quiet for several minutes now, the echo of Severus’ words still heavy in the air. His hand is still held securely in Severus’, the only thing keeping the dark-haired man from leaving the wretched house and never coming back. Severus does not know what in Merlin’s name had possessed him to tell Remus about this, about _everything,_ but it is impossible to take back now. From Spinner’s End to Hogwarts and back again, he had never escaped his pain, even in the few years he had been getting better.

He wonders, in an empty sort of way, how Remus can even stand to look at him.

But Remus shifts, then, taking Severus’ right hand back in his, and whispers, “I admire your strength in telling me this, Severus. You are...remarkably brave, despite what you may think. If I may ask, though — what inspired you to tell me now?”

Severus can feel his childhood defences fighting to shut Remus out, to put up those cold walls he’s hid behind for as long as he can remember. Everyone he’d let in has died, his list of regrets as long as the life he’s lived. But he has promises to keep, and a future, however uncertain, that one particular man seems committed to being a part of. And, if he’s honest, he doesn’t think he can bear to lose someone else that he…

Pushing that forbidden word from his thoughts, Severus finally meets Remus’ eyes. “You had asked me, not so long ago, who looked after me these days. At the time, I could not answer, but if I am honest — I think you have been watching after me for some time now, as I have you.” Remus’ eyebrow lifts slightly, but Severus can tell he’s not surprised; if anything, he looks almost hopeful. “I have been ashamed of this part of myself for so long. But...I do not feel that way with you.”

“In these past few years, you have never once shamed me for being a werewolf, even when you hated me. How could I ever be ashamed of you?” Remus’ voice, soft yet strong, settles on Severus like a blanket. “You have seen me for who I am, as have I with you. You are so many things, Severus, and I could never love you any different.”

The shock of the words hits Severus before Remus realizes what he said. The apology is only halfway formed when Severus leans forward, his lips capturing Remus’, clumsy but sure. When they separate, nearly breathless, Severus whispers, “Don’t apologize. I feel the same.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Remus exhales, and relieved laughter fills the air. Shifting to sit beside Severus, Remus kisses him again, and again, and the world falls away.

They have a battle ahead of them, he knows. But later that night, when he has reluctantly retired to Hogwarts, Severus lies awake in the darkness, content that, whatever this war may bring, he has someone who cares about him — a person who, for all they’ve been through, Severus would not give up for the world.

For all the lights that have blinked out along the way, Severus knows, for as long as he lives, the light that Remus has struck in his heart will never go out.


End file.
